


Thirty-Eight Weeks

by Ladderofyears



Series: Domesticity [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Body Positive Language, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Breastfeeding, Breastfeeding Kink, Draco Has a Secret, Happy, Harry is a Tease, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry, Oral Sex, Pre-birth Lactation, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Positive Language, So Married, contractions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/pseuds/Ladderofyears
Summary: Draco is thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and is finding a few of the changes to his body a touch uncomfortable.Happily, Harry doesn't think that Draco has ever looked better, and proceeds to show his husband just exactly how desirable he is.





	Thirty-Eight Weeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PollyWeasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyWeasley/gifts).



> PollyWeasley, this isn't quite the fic we imagined but hopefully its still very lovely. <3 <3 Thank you for being greatest friend and inspiration that I can imagine, and making my birthday very special. And I will get there with something longer. I’ve just got to stop writing these short fics <3 <3

Draco bides his time as his pregnancy progresses slowly onwards. 

The days tick over from his seventh month into the eighth, and edge on relentlessly towards his due date. For months his baby bump had been _small_ : tidy, and easy to ignore. But now, as his time draws ever closer he can feel his belly growing with every day that passes. 

Examining his silhouette in the mirror, Draco can see how much his stomach has expanded, pushing outwards, curved and heavy. 

He revels in it, really; this changing, growing body that feels so strong and powerful, capable of carrying his and Harry’s _baby_ , of growing this new little life. Draco knows that the last few weeks of pregnancy are when babies gain the most weight, and he knows too that both he, and the baby are on target, measuring exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

But Draco knows too, that he’s fretful and sometimes uneasy; knows that he’s snarky and difficult to live with. Wizard pregnancies are notoriously complicated, and Draco feels his heart lurch with every unbidden pinch or tweeze. Each time, his hands caress the convex swell of his stomach; fingertips anxiously searching, _probing_ , until he feels their baby push back against him; or he traces the loop and coil of baby shifting his position under his taut, stretched skin. 

For not once in all of his privileged, cosseted existence has Draco wanted or loved anything as much as his and Harry’s baby. 

He doesn’t care that the Healer’s have dictated that he’s to spend most of his time stuck in bed, or sat watching mindless Muggle movies on their settee, wearing a path in the carpet with his constant trips to the toilet. Draco doesn’t care that his magic is wonky, or that his cooling spells never quite hit their mark. His centre of balance is off too, his gait necessarily slow and careful as he moves carefully, accommodating his round, blooming belly. 

For the last few months Harry and he had stayed in most evenings, eating take-away that gave him indescribable indigestion. If he were pressed, Draco didn’t think he’s be able to remember when he’d last had the focus to even _attempt_ reading a book. He didn’t even care about the humiliation that is stretchy, elasticated paternity trousers and loose Muggle tee-shirts warped out of shape by extension spells. For the first time in his life, Draco is sporting a body that no longer tolerates clothing with _zips_ , and Merlin, Draco knows he’s _never_ been happier. 

And every night Draco falls asleep in the circle of Harry’s arms, their hands pressed together against his swollen belly. 

His beloveds breath is warm on Draco’s neck, his pulse steady and safe. Harry smells like warm skin, and his very presence makes Draco reassured and protected. Each night they lie together, the mild jolt of their sons kicks, and his gentle, regular hiccuping a reassuring presence against both their fingertips. 

////

Waiting for Harry to finish his shower, Draco throws the parenting book onto the floor in pure annoyance. The round faced cherub on its cover smiles saintly, seeming to watch Draco from where the paperback lands, waving his chubby fingers in his direction. Draco feels his back ache under his new extra weight, and he sits up awkwardly, shifting his pillows to take the strain. 

_Pansy had meant well_ , Draco supposes, with the pile of books and magazines she’d delivered once he and Harry had shared their thrilling news. But, quite honestly, some of the descriptions of labour are more terrifying that _anything_ the Dark Lord had deemed fit to dole out and the constant female pronouns are aggravating too. Male pregnancy, he decided, seemed to belong in his schoolboy copy of _Fantastic Beasts_ , rather than in a self-help book. Even the complicated spellwork that Draco will need to birth his baby is reserved for one small paragraph, rushed over like it was freakishly unusual

And Draco simply _couldn’t_ reconcile his experience of pregnancy with that description. 

Despite some morning sickness early on that Draco had steadfastly refused to describe as such (occurring as it did, morning, noon and night) and some incredibly strange cravings (Harry had caught him cleaning his teeth four times a day because their toothpaste had tasted _luscious_ ) the whole experience had just felt instinctive; natural. When their Healer had delivered the news, Harry had been astonished; his face looking quite as if he’d been _stupefied_ for Circe’s sake. But Draco supposed he couldn’t blame him. After all, they’d only been taking fertility potions for two months, and everyone, their Healers included, had told them to expect the process to take months. 

But Draco was completely calm. He’d known, with absolute certainty, that they were pregnant before they’d even arrived at St. Mungos. 

And nobody had believed him, of course. Not Harry, not Pansy. Not even his own mother. Even their Healer had laughed at his naivete. But Draco had known. He’d known from the very first moment that their baby was there, growing deep inside him, safe in his womb. 

And _naturally_ , that very first moment had happened the first time in weeks that they’d made love spontaneously, rather than being told to by a date on the parchment calendar _epoximised_ to their wardrobe door. 

They’d been cooking, the steam fogging Harry’s ridiculous glasses and making his insane hair curl adorably. Draco had stepped forward, pulling Harry into a kiss, and in the heat of the moment had utterly _forgotten_ their stupid timetable and their stupid thermometer spells. Forgotten all their finger-crossing, and bum-propping, and those stupid fertility crystals that Mrs. Weasley had pressed upon them. Draco forgot all the dreary rituals that they’d both come to associate with making love. 

Harry had made the _smallest_ of breathy moans at his kiss, which was all it had taken for Draco to lose his mind _completely_. 

They’d fucked on the sofa only minutes later, their bodies sweating and pulsing in unison. Harry had gasped as his orgasm ripped though him, his beloveds whole body convulsing with his final, furious thrust. Harry had orgasmed with Draco’s name on his tongue, and then his slippery, opalescent cum had worked its sorcery. 

They’d conceived their son on their sofa. Draco had felt the familiar squeeze of Harry’s magic deep inside his belly only seconds later when their baby implanted his tiny self in the Draco’s uterus. Their baby, then still but _cells_ , divided and grew stronger, embedding ever more deeply with every second that passed. 

And for Draco, this passably passionate shag had become the most awesome, and terrifying, and deliriously erotic experience of his whole _life_. Harry and he had made a baby, and it had felt like everything Draco had ever wanted, or ever needed. For days after Draco had felt higher than the clouds, hardly able to speak with the exhilaration he felt. When the Healer had confirmed the pregnancy, Draco hadn’t felt nervous or unsure. 

He’d felt like he was finally home. 

////

Sitting up seems to have done the trick, and Draco sighs, muttering a mild painkilling spell. He looks down at his body appraisingly whilst his magic winds over his skin and through his muscles. 

He has some stretch marks on his tummy and hips, small red lines that pattern his pale skin, all of which had aggrieved him _immensely_ when they’d arrived, unbidden and unwanted, during his sixth month. Pansy had laughed merrily at him though, showing him her matching ones from her pregnancy with Rigel, her toddler son. 

“Be proud of them, darling,” she’d instructed, taking the hem of his shirt directly out of his hands, and patting the side of his bump kindly. “Try to imagine they’re tiger stripes instead, a mark of honour for bringing a baby into the world. Remember that you’re doing something amazing.”

And so Draco really tries not to care, though he still lathers on the moisturising potions each day. If Harry has actually noticed them, he’d not said anything, which proves once again how kind his husband is (or perhaps proves how much he values un-hexed bollocks. Draco isn’t entirely sure). He spies the tiny stretch marks that have arrived on the side of his pecs too, but Draco certainly isn’t about to show his best-friend _those_. Over the last month Draco has felt his chest swelling, skin growing tight and firm under his touch. 

Unconsciously, he brings his hands up and holds the puffy, sore muscles in his hands. The ducts beneath his rosy pink nipples are sensitive, laden as they are with milk. 

The nubs furl into hard, pebbly points as he strokes them with fingers that come away damp to the touch (and _yes_ , Draco _knows_ his body is getting ready to provide for their baby but he can’t bring himself to call them his _breasts_. Not aloud anyway. He’s decided to wait till their baby is feeding from them before he does that.) 

And right now, his chest had grown so full, so _overripe_ , and his nipples pucker and tingle under his hands. As he pinches them, ever so slightly, Draco starts to feel antsy and restless. They _ache_ , and he can’t decide if he likes the feeling or not. But every fibre of his being craves their relief, making him fidgety and impatient. At just over a week from his due date, even the most slender pressure makes Draco’s chest fill and leak, wetting his shirt through if he is wearing one, and squirting milk down his front in an undignified dribble when he isn’t. 

As a small droplet of translucent liquid beads at his nipple and drips onto his baby bump, Draco works his lip in anticipation, hoping that Harry will return to his side before many more minutes pass. His chest aches so much of the time now; his bodies way of telling Draco just how ready he is to sustain and nourish their baby. 

////

“Look at you, love.” Draco is shocked out of his reverie by Harry’s voice, and he looks up to see his husband stood in the bedroom doorway. 

And Harry’s physique just looks _entirely_ flawless from where Draco is sat. His husband’s body is all hard lines of dark, strong sinewy muscle which strain against the fabric of his tight tee shirt, springy hair damp still after his shower, and bright dewy skin. As their eyes meet, Harry’s face glances over Draco's swollen, rotund body, and he _smiles_ ; his face radiating a happiness that feels infectious. 

“I don’t know,” Harry laughs, his eyes never leaving Draco, “you’ve already got your hands all over yourself. If I’m gone for more than a minute then you just start without me. Always so _eager_ , aren't you love? As if you don’t have any idea how good you look to me right now-”

And then Harry is sat in front of Draco on their bed, his beloveds loping stride bringing them together in only a matter of moments. He draws his body close to where Draco sits nestled on the pillows, and straddles his legs either side of Draco’s large baby bump. 

Harry moves his hands to rest against Draco’s belly, and their son shifts, pressing back against him. “So beautiful,” Harry murmurs reverently, with the rest of his words lost entirely as he presses his lips against Draco’s taut skin, lavishing kisses on their baby while intimate magic rolls off him in waves. 

“Harry, _please!_ -” Draco moans, his body as immediately reactive to Harry as it always is. His lovers proximity, and his warm, sensual magic combine to work their usual wizardry on Draco’s body. Awash with pregnancy hormones, he can feel his arousal growing embarrassingly quickly, and his chest is dripping steadily now, desperate for relief. “I need you to take care of me, Potter. _Please_.”

So Harry does, lifting his face to gaze at Draco beatifically.

_He really is so gorgeous_ , thinks Draco happily, and then all rational thought just seems to leave him, because his husband is rubbing his nipples, _oh so gently_ , rubbing little circles, swirls and whorls on his chest that Draco speculates are _entirely_ part of some devious plot to make him completely lose his mind. 

And each time Harry makes contact with Draco’s nipple its as if there's a _vibration_ ; a shudder that runs through his whole body. Suddenly, he can feel the muscles at the front of his belly start to tighten and twist, a Braxton Hicks contraction that Draco trembles through, making an undignified whimper that’s surely _quite_ unsuitable for a Malfoy. 

“Everything okay?” Harry asks in a low voice, the lines around his eyes creasing in concern. He’s stopped rubbing Draco’s nipples, but then he hasn’t dropped his hands either. “Need to tell me, love, if something's starting to happen-”

“Nothings happening! Merlin, Harry, you’d be the first I’d tell,” Draco huffs, pursing his lips, annoyed he’s been caught looking so vulnerable over a simple practice contraction. 

“Just one of the little ones… I’ve been having them for weeks. You were teasing me, you absolute sod. _You_ can see how much I need to help me. I’m going to drown us _both_ in sour bloody baby milk if you don't do something.” Draco risks what he hopes is one of his more intimidating glares, but his current needy and incredibly _pregnant_ situation negates any effect it might have on Harry. 

“ _So impatient_ , Draco. Of course I’m going to help you,” Harry is looking at Draco with wide, verdant green eyes, shiny with love and affection. 

_Harry really is as good as the whole world believes him to be_ , decides Draco as his husband fluffs up more pillows and helps Draco negotiate his heavy tummy into a better sitting position, casting cushioning spells to provide a little extra support. Its a warm evening, and Draco is wearing just boxers, sat low on his hips for comforts sake, and he squirms a little, his skin raising goose pimples under the rippling frisson of Harry’s magic. “Alright. Comfortable?”

Harry kisses Draco’s lips first, a chaste little peck of a thing before he starts to move downward, lavishing kisses down the new, softer curve of Draco’s jaw. This pregnancy has filled out all of Draco’s hard edges; erased those scrawny, angular lines that he’s carried since childhood, and made him feel _present_ in a way he’s never experienced before. Draco is utterly _glowing_ and Harry takes any available opportunity to relish every inch of him. 

_And Harry’s mouth is moving in the right direction now_ , thinks Draco, as his husband kisses and licks the overheated flesh over his collarbone, and then- blessedly!- his mouth envelops one of his soaking, engorged nipples. 

Arching his back, anticipating the sheer relief that Harry’s lips will bring to his sore body, Draco moans in dismay when his husband doesn't latch on, and, maddeningly just _licks_ , the tickle of his tongue an absolute agony against areolas that seem to pucker and prickle _impossibly_ tightly under Harry’s hot breath. 

“ _Potter!_ You agonising, annoying _arse!_ ,” Draco hisses, his voice full of pleading as both sides of his chest start dripping in earnest. “Do it! Stop _torturing_ me, _please_!”

“You know what to say then, love,” Harry smirks, his voice muffled over the slippery, spit sodden nipple he continues to work on. “What do I want to hear? Ask nicely, _Malfoy_.” 

“Ugh. You utter cretin. So completely _coarse_. Fine.” 

Draco is breathless, and his voice sounds high-pitched and rushed. Of course, had he have got Harry pregnant, he’d have teased him far more mercilessly, so he supposes he ought to be a little grateful. “ _Circe_. Okay… _Will you milk me?_ Please. Drink my milk. You bloody love it-” 

And even though he’s teased him mercilessly tonight, Draco knows that Harry does adore it, this suckling of his chest. 

Loves the slick, stickiness of Draco’s milk flowing into his mouth, loves how intimate and vulnerable it is for both of them, loves the sensual purity of the act. Harry’s always enjoyed nipple play, even before their baby, and he latches on before Draco can even finish his sentence. Harry takes the nipple fully into his mouth, and tenderly starts to suck. 

The tight, engorged pressure of Draco’s chest starts to ease _immediately_ , and he hums his approval when Harry moves his attentions over to the other side, his husband just _laughing_ in delight as that first pull of milk hits his tongue and fills his mouth. Harry is intent on his work, and Draco relaxes against the cushions, sighing and closing his eyes while his beloved works so diligently to make him feel good.

And _everything_ is feeling good to Draco now his desperate need has been met. Harry has spread his hands widely over the side of his giant belly, his calloused hands massaging the stretched, soft skin so lightly. “Um-mm,” Draco murmurs, wriggling a little under the caresses, and not wanting to open his eyes yet, “that feels nice. Keep touching me just like that-”

Harry doesn’t reply, his mouth otherwise engaged, but his hands acknowledge Draco’s request and start to move ever lower. Harry’s hands skim carefully over Draco’s newly popped-out belly button, and Draco shivers, jerking his body slightly with this new, unusual sensation. Draco can actually feel Harry’s kind smile against his skin as he continues to suckle. Encouraged, Draco pushes the swell of his tummy against Harry’s hand, encouraging his husband to move even further down his body. 

Harry’s hand shifts to stroke the heavy base of Draco’s belly then, his hand deliberately sliding once, twice, over the head of Draco’s flushed, leaking cock, making Draco just _gasp_. Trapped, as it is, within his silky boxers, and squashed between his tummy and thighs, its _quite_ impossible for Harry to get anywhere close to pleasuring Draco in their current position. Harry releases Draco’s nipples from his mouth, and helps his husband to slide into a prone position on their bed. 

“Um-mm... Harry, _this_ -” Draco moans, feeling helplessly aroused now. His veins are awash with endorphins and wonderment, and he feels entirely, completely _infatuated_ with this clever man that he’s married. He holds up his hips so that Harry can slide off his boxer shorts, and his cock springs free, hard and ruddy, bouncing against the smooth curve of his tummy. Draco spreads his legs widely, feeling wanton, and easy when Harry spells the air cool around him, and then takes Draco’s length firmly in hand, rubbing his tight balls with a cunning finger. 

“ _Shhhhh_ ,” Harry replies quietly, his fingertips ever moving, petting and fondling Draco gently, and sending his oversensitive body into raptures. "I've got you love, you’re safe… Such a privilege to be here with you, so big with our baby. And Merlin, your _body_. Keeping our son safe just under your heart; your breasts getting ready to nourish him and help him to grow… You’re a marvel, a work of art. I’m in awe.”

Harry takes Draco’s cock into his mouth, lavishing it with the same care and attention that he’d used on his husbands nipples. 

Draco moans, his mouth uttering an incoherent stream of vague endearments and obscenities; the same litany of desire he always recites when he’s close to orgasm. Harry’s tongue gently tugs at the sensitive head of his prick, licking and sucking lightly. Draco cries out shamelessly, his body even more reactive to Harry than when he was seventeen. For weeks now, hormones have had him lusting after his husband like a randy bloody _teenager_ , Draco getting half-hard at the merest brush of Harry’s hand.

But truly, Draco had no real grounds for complaint. Harry had looked after him, unsparing with his ingenious mouth and his body, giving Draco endless lovely orgasms when he’d gotten too big to touch himself properly; his daily shower-wank having disappeared alongside the sight of his bloody _feet_. 

And Harry hasn’t ever disparaged Draco sexually; never once been put off by his swollen feet, his red leprechaun cheeks, or the sheen of sweat that seems to coat him every time they touch. Instead, the insufferable git had used words like _vibrant_ , and _ravishing_ and _blooming_. Secretly, Draco’s never been more hopelessly in love than he is now, but it wouldn’t _do_ to say those words aloud, inflame that bloody saviour complex even further. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that Harry might already know, anyway.

Draco cums embarrassingly quickly, with a gasping, raspy moan; his hips rocking in tiny motions against Harry’s mouth, his neck arched and every cell in his body thrumming with white-hot arousal. 

////

Truthfully, its really all a little much at thirty-eight weeks, and Draco drops his head back, panting and exhausted, his chest heaving. Their son seems to have woken in all the excitement, coiling and somersaulting inside Draco. His kicks are clearly discernible as Harry and he watch the dome of his belly twitch; watch their son dancing under tight skin. 

Their trance is broken by a particularly sharp tightening that radiates from the bottom of Draco’s belly, and seems to knot at the base of his back. Its really painful, worse than he’s experienced before, and Draco squeezes his eyes shut, lights sparking at the corner of his vision. He clutches urgently for Harry’s hand, and his beloved counts them both down through the contraction, _three, two, one_ , just like they’ve practised. 

“Draco,” Harry asks, panic tingeing his voice, “are you hurting? Is our baby coming?”

But Draco doesn’t think so, not tonight anyway. He wills his voice to sound less shaky than he actually is, for Harry can sense hesitancy from a thousand paces. It doesn’t help, either that Head Auror Potter can actually _read_ his bloody _thoughts_. 

“No… Just another little twinge. Aftershocks from my nice orgasm maybe? I’m nearly thirty-eight weeks. I’ll need to get used to it. Contractions are going to happen more and more often.” Draco pats the top of his belly with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, and smiles weakly when their baby pushes back against his hand. 

“Well, you need to wake me up if anything happens,” Harry says as he gets into bed close beside Draco. “ _Anything_ at all.”

“I think I'll be fine. I’m pregnant, not made of glass-” He signs, and rubs the side of his tummy where their baby has aimed a well-placed kick. “And it seems your Potter spawn has decided to busy himself harassing me tonight... _Obviously_ taking after his other father in that respect,” Draco grumbles, while Harry presses a kiss to his forehead and helps him turn onto his side. 

Harry spoons in behind him, and snakes one arm underneath Draco for a pillow, wrapping the other around his swollen waist, his other strong hand splayed widely over his belly. Draco twists himself comfortable, shivering just a little under Harry’s refreshed cooling spell. He lets his body relax into Harry's, allowing his beloved to support his weight. The regular _thumpthumpthump_ of his husband’s heart comforts Draco, as he lays there, pressed between his husband and his baby. 

Draco is thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and his baby is so big now. Nearly full term, and with every passing minute he’s readying himself to be born. 

And Draco hasn't said as much to Harry, but his contractions have been _rather_ more regular than he’s perhaps admitted to, and rather more painful than he’s acknowledged. But, so far at least, they haven’t been _too_ intolerable. Draco knows he isn’t going to make his due date, but for the moment, that's staying a secret between him and their son. 

Tonight, all Draco wants is to savour these last days, hours and minutes wrapped securely within Harry’s embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading xxxx


End file.
